The Morning We Couldn’t Become Us
by Ink•Dom
She was sweet.
I was kind.
For a moment,
it felt like we had borrowed
the best two dates
from another lifetime.
Sir was hungry,
not for her body,
but for the softness that lived
in the curve of her neck,
the quiet language
her hands spoke without knowing.
They kissed.
She answered with warmth,
with laughter,
with a tenderness
that could have become home.
But not every gentle heart
speaks the same language.
She said,
“I can let go.”
Sir answered,
“I can take control.”
Neither of them was wrong.
They were simply
standing on opposite sides
of the same bridge.
Sir searched for the quiet certainty
that lets his heart become gentle,
that lets trust become touch.
It never came.
She was sweetness.
She was light.
But she was not
the surrender
his soul had been waiting for.
So they kissed again.
They held each other
as if kindness
could rewrite compatibility.
Morning arrived
without asking permission.
The first goodbye
was softer than any kiss.
She walked toward her future.
Sir walked back
into the oldest room
inside himself,
where love still echoes
through the halls of old wounds,
and every farewell
sounds a little too much
like home.
by Ink•Dom
